Pity Party Massacre

I feel like I'm fuckin crackin inside,
It's hard enough comin up with a passionate rhyme,
when my brain only works half of the time,
the other half, I'm too busy just passing the time.
On reminiscing over things that no longer exist.
Like the stitches on my heart or the scars on my fist.
When the twitches in my arm shoot down to my wrist
and razors become jewelery to a sick masochist.
But, before you go assuming that I'd slit my own wrists,
I'm just doing what I do to make sense of this shit.
With a pad and a pen, I release all my rage.
My suicide ends when the ink hits the page.
With all the dreams I've had and mistakes that I've made,
I have to write my own ending to escape all the pain.
And I don't give a fuck what anyone says.
This is my fucking heart, this is my fucking head.
This is my blood spilling out the tip of this pen.
If any one's offended by what I just said,
Who cares? I'm always the one that's left in the end.
It's a pity party massacre. And no one is invited.
I'll murder all my worries alone, unrequited.
Slicing through my doubts and insecurities.
I don't need anyone to show me how to breathe.
I know how my evil heart handles situations.
And it's not with the help of false motivations.
I can't relate to the fake, can't have faith in their place.
Cuz everyone is capable of running away.
I've been abandoned before, I still remember the taste.
I'll be damned if I let another person damage my fate.
It's just the way it is, I can't change what you see.
This is the world now, either love it or leave.